


Snow Globes

by PrettyArbitrary



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Devil Trigger Sex, M/M, Power Dynamics, Psychic Bond, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 03:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18983998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: He closes his eyes and shivers as an oversized fingertip strokes along one of his pinions. He feels so tired.Vergil knows. He knows everything in Dante’s mind, here. Then again, when didn’t he? “Cease fighting this hopeless battle. Come to me, brother.”He shivers again and sways in place. If it had been Vergil in his completion asking that… But Urizen is only a piece of him, warped out of his proper shape in the absence of his balancing forces.“Perhaps,” Urizen says softly. “But completion for you or I has always included us both.”





	Snow Globes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VandyBeast (VanderBurg)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanderBurg/gifts).



> Dedicated to vandybeast, who gave me the prompt!
> 
> Betaed by the generous and insightful passeridae.

He dreams about a lot of things, when he hangs in the arms of those statues. Childhood, demons, Mundus, the Sparda, his many encounters with Vergil. But it’s not all dreams and memories.

Urizen is there. Vergil. Vergil’s demon. It’s all the same, really. He’s not a dream at all; he’s absolutely real. Dante knows him. He’d know him anywhere. 20 feet tall and big ugly in his unmoored demon form, but that’s not in the looks. It’s just that Vergil’s demon half has about 80% of his worst traits.

They walk together, in their minds, in this little tree-powered eddy where their souls meet, and come to the doors of their old house. Urizen gestures grandly; Vergil’s imperious tendencies, cranked up to 11. It’s a bad look on him. “Here is where it happened.” He replays it for Dante, the story V could only tell him.

“You stupid blind bastard,” Dante says when it ends. “You come back from the dead and you still don’t know the first thing about real power.”

He turns around and walks back out. The house isn’t real. He isn’t interested in dreams of the past. He spends too much time trapped there as it is. He has to tuck his wings around himself to fit through the front door, but Vergil’s demon for some reason doesn’t even have to duck. Dreams are bullshit.

He’s in his devil form, because that’s how Vergil wants him and this is his playground, mostly. “Your true form,” he purrs in that velvet snarl of a voice, straight into Dante’s thoughts. “Your true beauty. Untainted by the humanity you still cower behind after all these years. Are you still so afraid of your own capabilities?”

Dante scoffs and turns away from the huge clawed hand that tips his face up. “Capable of what you’re doing now? I’d rather not be.”

Qliphoth roots come slithering around to block his path. He’s not allowed to roam without an escort. Vergil comes up behind him, towering over him yet somehow intimately in his personal space. The roots close in around him, skimming him salaciously, herding him where Vergil wants him to go.

The qliphoth winds its nasty way into a lot of things: Earth and Hell, reality and dream, past and future. Vergil’s demon ushers him along a turn and they step out of the current of memories into a current of oracles. Futures swim around them, the scenery morphing from one to another. The world if Vergil’s demon has his way, the qliphoth devouring the countryside and the hellgates ripped wide open, cities in smoldering ruins with demons prowling the streets, eating anything that moves including each other. Humanity and demonkind both huddled fearfully at Vergil’s feet.

Whole, even Vergil at his worst would never have wanted this. It’s the fever dream of a demonic id broken loose from its leash.

Dante turns in a circle, watching the parade of horrors. In between, there are other possibilities. V, looking absolutely awful, cupping his face and leaning in for a last kiss before he disintegrates to ash in Dante’s hands. Nero and Kyrie, looking exhausted, leaning together over a tiny red-faced baby swaddled in white cloth. Vergil, whole and one, the blue aura of his power simmering around him like a divine cloak. Dante, striding into Hell with a great black blade over his shoulder and Yamato in his hand, looking even more tired than he feels now. Walking away from everything behind him.

He closes his eyes and shivers as an oversized fingertip strokes along one of his pinions. He feels so tired.

Vergil knows. He knows everything in Dante’s mind, here. Then again, when didn’t he? “Cease fighting this hopeless battle. Come to me, brother.”

He shivers again and sways in place. If it had been Vergil in his completion asking that… But Urizen is only a piece of him, warped out of his proper shape in the absence of his balancing forces.

“Perhaps,” Urizen says softly. “But completion for you or I has always included us both.”

The tentacles squirm closer, running over Dante’s ridged skin. They’re extensions of Vergil, and he can feel him in their touch. One wraps around his arm. He tries to tug free, but it holds him. “Verg. Knock it off.”

In answer, desire hits him. A storm of it, raging from Vergil’s demon into Dante: wanting him, wanting to touch, to hold, to control, to overpower and own him with pleasure and pain. A demon’s violent desire, love in the form of possession. He can’t fight it, because he knows it too well, from the inside. This has always been part of what they are to each other. And this is still Vergil. God help him, it’s still so very much Vergil.

Maybe all he’ll ever have of him again.

He tips his head back with a sigh as one of the tentacles wraps around his throat, stroking almost like a tongue. 

This is stupid, stupid, but he can’t be anything else. He can’t bring himself to pull away. Tendrils snake around his body, around his wings, and he lets them. Vergil’s unique touch, Vergil’s power singing through his skin against Dante’s body. What else can he even do here, he justifies it to himself. His real body is unconscious and he’s lost in his demon-brother’s snow globe reality. 

The qliphoth tentacles tighten their grip on him till he can barely twitch. A couple grope across his chest to the glowing seam of energy that runs down his front. He arches his back and cries out in pained ecstasy as they push into it. They’re ropes of Vergil’s being, wriggling their way past the outer shell of his power into his churning heart. It’s hard to breathe past the overwhelming sensation of his brother’s presence; it pours into him in waves, threatening to fill him so full he loses himself. His legs buckle and he drops into the knotwork of roots Vergil’s woven around him.

All his attention wants to sink into the place where Vergil’s penetrating his core, but his brother’s in the mood for torment. A ripple of sweet sadism warns him before two more tendrils slip between his legs to begin licking at his pussy. They drag his awareness back to his body, probing and massaging and teasing until he’s shaking with good old-fashioned arousal. He gives in with a whine and cants his hips up, begging wordlessly to be entered. 

Both of them plunge into him at once, slender mobile tips parting his inner lips and then stretching his passage wide with their thick, fleshy bodies. They read his motions and his pleasure to twine and work into every sensitive crevice. The seeking, pumping protrusion of Vergil’s presence thrusts deeper into his soul. He’s held cranked tight between the fucking of his body and the fucking of his soul. Vergil’s eyes—all of them—take in every second of it, burning into him with pleasure and possession, reveling in Dante’s half-willing surrender.

That’s a damn lie, though, and they both know it. He doesn’t get any privacy here; he doesn’t get to look away from his own wild, joyous submission. The ‘yes yes more more’ down in his heart at every additional fraction of Vergil’s touch on and inside him. His fingers in Dante’s mind and soul work deeper, rooting through him for every intimacy and anger between them, and Dante’s own goddamn traitor soul takes his brother’s side at the worst moment. He can’t bury it deep enough, can’t muster the will to push him out when Vergil reaches into the back of his mind, into the places only the two of them know about, and touches the ‘please just stop this, let me be enough.’

He arches and comes with a sob. Squeezes his eyes closed on the tears. None of it gets to be private. But this isn’t the part of Vergil who’ll respect them, who they’re meant for.

Vergil catches his chin again, and tilts his head up to look right into his face. It’s a fucking claim, a possession, seeing into and eating up every inch of him. Dante can’t look away and pretend he doesn’t acknowledge it. The truth is, he wants to be branded. If only one of them is going to walk away from all this, at least he’ll have a scar to remember him by.

The scenes whirling around them change, and draw his attention: Dante as dark knight to Vergil’s god-emperor. Bending knee in fealty; scything through human cities and demon warrens to enforce his law; locked in passion in his embrace.

Still caught in the web of qliphoth roots, Dante watches the progression for a while. The world of cruel order they’d build together, with quotas and cullings and the only choice between obedience or death.

He tries very, very hard to pretend he can’t feel the creeping thread of his brother-demon’s hope. But he still feels it snap when he finally scoffs and turns his head away.

Vengefulness at his rejection seethes up in its place. “Shall I show you your future, then,” Vergil snarls, “if you persist in this foolishness?”

“I’d prefer not, no.” But Vergil’s never listened to him before and he’s not about to start now. He lifts a hand and they’re in the qliphoth’s blood-soaked throne room, Vergil’s demon looking down from on high at Dante, kneeling in gore with Nero limp in his arms. He doesn’t get the mercy of the distance of ‘what if.’ The grief and loss of this future ghost of himself crush straight into his chest and he sobs into his nephew’s shoulder, paralyzed with the knowledge of his failure—to protect Nero, to stop his brother, to save the last sad scrap of Vergil’s soul.

“Again and again, you refuse strength,” Vergil’s demon roars, both from his throne and in his head, “and here is the final, inevitable result. Will the knowledge that you fought your hardest fill the broken places in your pure soul?”

Dante gasps into Nero’s hair and rage explodes out from his core. The illusion cracks and shatters under the impact of his devil trigger. The qliphoth roots holding him wither and crumble. His wings snap open and he rockets up at his brother’s face, only to be deflected by the crystalline column that Yamato has become. “ASSHOLE.”

“You blame me, but you are the one who shies from your own power.” Vergil reaches out toward him.

Dante grits his teeth, sets his will and reaches back. Their little reality bubble explodes on contact.

Vergil’s last words follow Dante down into the dark.


End file.
